When the only tool you have is a hammer...

A long, long time ago, in fact, during the last millennium, I was taught to never confuse activity with accomplishment. Memory fails to inform whether it was a professor in college or a supervisor at work who instilled that lesson, although I'm inclined toward the latter. Despite being a New Englander, from the home territory of Emerson and Thoreau, I failed to generalize from the basic dictum. More's the pity these days.

It's possible that many of us, especially among liberals and progressives, are using the wrong tools to fix what's broken in our country. Maria Popova, in her inestimable Brain Pickings, alerts us to Thoreau's perspective on social reform:

"To one who habitually endeavors to contemplate the true state of things, the political state can hardly be said to have any existence whatever. It is unreal, incredible, and insignificant to him, and for him to endeavor to extract the truth from such lean material is like making sugar from linen rags, when sugar-cane may be had. Generally speaking, the political news, whether domestic or foreign, might be written to-day for the next ten years, with sufficient accuracy. Most revolutions in society have not power to interest, still less alarm us; but tell me that our rivers are drying up, or the genus pine dying out in the country, and I might attend. Most events recorded in history are more remarkable than important, like eclipses of the sun and moon, by which all are attracted, but whose effects no one takes the trouble to calculate."

THIS IS "PLANET B"

I'm embarrassed to admit that I've reached codgerhood without having read A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers. That's an oversight we'll correct this Summer, at the latest. It also makes us feel a little less threatened by the current state of politics in the US and much of the rest of the world. It looks suspiciously like we're experiencing widespread failure of political systems, accompanied by a world population that currently exceeds the earth's ability to support a basic standard of living under current economic and political systems, The end of a fossil fuel economy is upon us and those who would experience significant losses with the ending are fighting to extract as much profit as they can. We are, it seems, very unlikely to solve or resolve these issues through political means. But, that doesn't mean they're unsolvable.

Here's a few examples:

• DRAWDOWN: the most comprehensive plan ever proposed to reverse global warming.


• Doughnut Economics: thinking like a 21st century economist


• Re-thinking Progress: The Circular Economy

What seems sadly lacking so far is sufficient recognition that we're all in this together and either we all win or none of us win. Those who would argue otherwise would also argue that a vehicle tire is perfectly serviceable as is because it's only flat on one side. Our fossil fuel driven economy has become unsustainable for many reasons in addition to climate disruption. If we focus on real progress more that fleeting politics, we may attain the kind of cultural transformation needed to allow such children, grandchildren as we may have to lead a life that isn't hell on earth. Ironically, one of my favorite politicians, Robert Kennedy, warned us about these problems many years ago.

"Yet the gross national product does not allow for the health of our children, the quality of their education or the joy of their play.  It does not include the beauty of our poetry or the strength of our marriages, the intelligence of our public debate or the integrity of our public officials. 

It measures neither our wit nor our courage, neither our wisdom nor our learning, neither our compassion nor our devotion to our country, it measures everything in short, except that which makes life worthwhile. 

And it can tell us everything about America except why we are proud that we are Americans.   

If this is true here at home, so it is true elsewhere in world."

The Summer Day

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

—Mary Oliver

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A sign of hope! Think Spring!

The chart below was in Paul Douglas' weather blog this morning. It offers hope for us Winter-weary folks if we can just hang on for another couple of weeks. See March 10? See 34℉? The temperature is forecast to get above freezing! Perhaps we'll return to some semblance of what passes for normalcy in Minnesota's weather. Warm days and cold nights make for a successful maple sap run. Plus, bragging rights for surviving this February and the Winter of 2018-2019 won't even get us a free cup of coffee around here, since everyone else also had to cope with record-setting snowfalls preceded by a Polar Vortex.

Temperature Outlook

As of now, the birds are grateful the feeders are kept full. The dogs are grateful for a break from sub-zero temperatures. The dog walker is grateful the sun is shining. We all hope, as much as dogs and birds hope, that Friday's forecast of more snow brings but a dusting. Through today, the Winter Severity Index is only in the Moderate Range. That certainly seems to put a damper on the bragging rights, but we were living here during the Winter of 1983-1984, so our bragging rights are forever established. We lived through the Winter of Hoth on Earth!

tapping the sugar bush in a couple of weeks?

Photo by J. Harrington

As of this weekend, two kinds of Spring activities start, one of them regardless of the weather. We start focusing on organizing our fishing gear and planning some trips. We also will begin working on organizing our information for filing tax returns. Although, if we get enough more snow that more snow blowing is required, tax preparation efforts will get deferred. We've learned to limit, as much as we can, the major sources of pain we have to cope with at any one time.

Goddess of Maple at Evening

Chard deNiord, 1952

She breathed a chill that slowed the sap 
inside the phloem, stood perfectly still
inside the dark, then walked to a field 
where the distance crooned in a small 
blue voice how close it is, how the gravity 
of sky pulls you up like steam from the arch.
She sang along until the silence soloed 
in a northern wind, then headed back 
to the sugar stand and drank from a maple 
to thin her blood with the spirit of sap. 
To quicken its pace to the speed of sound 
then hear it boom inside her heart. 
To quicken her mind to the speed of light 
with another suck from the flooded tap.

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Marching into Spring #phenology

It's snowing again--still--some more. Snow is like contemporary politics and social media, if you pay too much attention, any one of them can and will drive you nuts. If you don't pay enough attention, you may miss something significant. Then again, I bet the folks that were stuck in and on an Amtrak train for 36 hours hadn't anticipated that delay no matter how much attention they were paying. We did better slightly more than a year ago when the Better Half and I took a train to Boston in early December, although at one point (Chicago?) we had to exit after walking back several cars because the storm we travelled through froze the doors and descending steps in place.

Canada geese returning early

Photo by J. Harrington

Next month's weather is frequently enough to try the patience of a saint so we'll focus on a number of other items that are worthy of celebration. March brings to us:

• The start of meteorological Spring


• The Better Half's birthday


• Daylight savings time (we should just stay on it)


• St. Patrick's Day (When we lived in Boston, we often marched in the parade as a member of our grade school band. Some years we marched through a snow storm.)


• Lawrence Ferlinghetti's 100th birthday!; and, last but far from least


• Earth Hour

bright red osier dogwood

Photo by J. Harrington

Sometime during the month ahead, we'll look for red osier dogwood to show bright color; the return of Canada geese and other waterfowl; at least some of the snow on the ground to melt (Please?); maybe the year's first rainfall; some bud burst on some trees; maybe a chorus of frogs; and other signs of life returning to our North Country. That's a marked improvement over February's Ground Hog Day, Valentine's Day and Presidents' Day, although, mostly in locales with warmer climes than here, early February does bring the celebration of Imbolc. So, chin up, in a couple of days it'll be Spring. Will someone let Mother Nature know about that. It seems she sometimes gets forgetful at her age and forgets to turn up her thermostat in some places. Elsewhere, you can see Spring headed North, even if it's a

Cold Spring

By Lawrence Raab

The last few gray sheets of snow are gone,

winter’s scraps and leavings lowered

to a common level. A sudden jolt

of weather pushed us outside, and now

this larger world once again belongs to us.

I stand at the edge of it, beside the house,

listening to the stream we haven’t heard

since fall, and I imagine one day thinking

back to this hour and blaming myself

for my worries, my foolishness, today’s choices

having become the accomplished

facts of change, accepted

or forgotten. The woods are a mangle

of lines, yet delicate, yet precise,

when I take the time to look closely.

If I’m not happy it must be my own fault.

At the edge of the lawn my wife

bends down to uncover a flower, then another.

The first splurge of crocuses.

And for a moment the sweep and shudder

of the wind seems indistinguishable

from the steady furl of water

just beyond her.

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Just drifting along...?

Well, the driveway's been cleared of excess snow for the third time in a week. More snow is in the forecast for several days this week, amounts to be determined. We aren't particularly pleased with this state of affairs but have decided this presents a fortuitous opportunity to read up on why zen buddhists rake sand to create a zen garden. Perhaps, if we train ourselves to meditate before and/or after clearing the driveway of snow, it would help us contemplate the reality of nature. On the other hand, we hope to never turn clearing snow from the driveway into a daily practice, although we could use the days between snow storms to manipulate the snow and snow banks in much the same way that sand is raked and rocks placed. This approach may be more healthy for those of us approaching our dotage than our typical response to frequent snow storms -- we yell, scream and curse a lot, doing an excellent Rumpelstiltskin imitation, if we do say so ourselves.

ripple marks carves in the snow by winds

Photo by J. Harrington

Yesterday's snow and winds presented snow devils, snow snakes and other forms of blowing and drifting snow (who knew?). We had enough sense to defer our mechanized version of snow blowing until this morning, but then had to deal with windchills of -26℉ and toes that got very cold during our two hour session. We're planning on wearing a new and improved pair of Sorel boots or equivalent for next Winter. By then we'll also have a new and improved snow blower. We've reached a stage in life where substituting machine power for our muscle power is wise bordering on essential. After reviewing a video this morning, we leaning toward the idea that a snow blower mounted on the front of the tractor may be more work than it's worth. Life in Minnesota's Winters got a lot easier to take the first time the steering wheel in our vehicle was heated. Maybe the same could be true if the snowblower (mechanical, not wind-driven) also had heated handles. There's something to check out later this year. Meanwhile, we'll try to believe that in less than 8 weeks, about all of this will be gone. We can welcome the return of snowy nights after giving thanks for a bountiful harvest.

snow devils chasing snow snakes

Photo by J. Harrington

Snowy Night

by Mary Oliver

Last night, an owl
in the blue dark
tossed
an indeterminate number
of carefully shaped sounds into
the world, in which,
a quarter of a mile away, I happened
to be standing.
I couldn’t tell
which one it was –
the barred or the great-horned
ship of the air –
it was that distant. But, anyway,
aren’t there moments
that are better than knowing something,
and sweeter? Snow was falling,
so much like stars
filling the dark trees
that one could easily imagine
its reason for being was nothing more
than prettiness. I suppose
if this were someone else’s story
they would have insisted on knowing
whatever is knowable – would have hurried
over the fields
to name it – the owl, I mean.
But it’s mine, this poem of the night,
and I just stood there, listening and holding out
my hands to the soft glitter
falling through the air. I love this world,
but not for its answers.
And I wish good luck to the owl,
whatever its name –
and I wish great welcome to the snow,
whatever its severe and comfortless
and beautiful meaning.

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A North Country girl kind of day

Last night brought several inches more of snow, followed by winds howling out of the Northwest, piling snowflakes into snowdrifts. We much prefer " 'S no drift!" This is the kind of Winter that confirms, at least for us, that Robert Zimmerman did indeed grow up in North Country places like Duluth and Hibbing and environs. Our place near the southern fringes of the North Country is where, even if the borderline is Wisconsin rather than Canada, rivers freeze and can stay that way late into Spring. Some years northern North Country folks wonder if the ice will be out in time for walleye opener in mid-May. The weather this month, especially last night and this morning, brought home the truth of a song.

St. Croix River frozen still late in March

Photo by J. Harrington

Girl From The North Country

Written by: Bob Dylan

Well, if you’re travelin’ in the north country fair

Where the winds hit heavy on the borderline

Remember me to one who lives there

She once was a true love of mine



Well, if you go when the snowflakes storm

When the rivers freeze and summer ends

Please see if she’s wearing a coat so warm

To keep her from the howlin’ winds...

When we first moved to Minnesota's North Country, we arrived knowing enough to not spit into the wind. Something new we've learn'd during our time here is that a similar rule applies to snowblowing. We'll fired up the Toro later today, if and when the winds no longer "hit heavy on the borderline." Even though we thought we knew better, the past couple of snowfalls have caught us blowing snow when shifting "breezes" left us with our faux fur parka hood ruff coated in a "snowflakes storm" from the blower's discharge chute.

rivers aren't all that freeze

Photo by J. Harrington

Tree branches that, as recently as yesterday, had lost their snow cover to wind and a brief burst of seasonable warmth are once again blanketed in white. Red squirrels have created a maze of tunnels leading to the bird feeder in front of the house. One or two cottontails are tantalizing the dogs with the scent trails they leave as they wander looking for dropped sunflower seeds or anything else that may be edible. If Spring melt doesn't come soon (not in the forecast), there's going to be a number of critters that may not make it through the this Winter. So far it's been an inconvenience for us. For the birds and bees and their cousins Spring's arrival is a matter of life and death. For others it is the start of a season to sell Winter's harvest. Once "summer ends," for many it can take too long a time to return, even in countries that are warming faster than many.

Ice Men

By James Longenbach

One cuts blocks

From the abundant river,

Hauls them house to house.

One falls, unseen,

The heart

Inoculated cold

Against a sky still moving.

Moving even now

Above the river,

The canal.

Willows shimmering

Across the water,

Muskrats diving out of reach.

The river whispers

Till it freezes—

A body

Twirling sluggishly

Beneath the surface as again

One stack, then

Spreads the straw.

Another falters,

Slips, or

Puts a sliver on your tongue

To feel it melting there—

The ice-lit

Underworld

Of someone else.

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Thaws melt snow tracks

The Minnesota Weather Guide marks today as the first day that normal temperatures reach 32℉ as Spring slowly approaches. The weather app on my phone says we should get got there this afternoon. Now, instead of continuing a trend of slowly rising temperatures, we can expect to drop back into the freezer for the next ten days or so. Maybe longer? Sigh. Will the tenacity of Winter make Spring all the sweeter when it arrives. Today's slightly milder temperatures suggest that will be the case.

deer track without the deer

Photo by J. Harrington

While researching muskrats yesterday, an interesting web page full of snow tracks popped up. Since our local snow is softening but remains on the ground, in fact, last night it got added to, today's probably a good time to share it with you. With luck, in a month or so it will be useless until next Winter. The Minnesota DNR has a nice set of tracking sheets that can help children learn about some Minnesota common animal tracks. I'm sure that we once again have a runny rabbit living under the front porch this Winter, not from the tracks (s)he leaves in the snow but the little round brown pellets left on the snow.

turkey tracks without the turkey

Photo by J. Harrington

Deeper snow, like the 12"+ we have in the front yard, makes it hard to identify tracks. Good tracking snow is only an inch or so, or even less, deep. We went back later in the day yesterday, when there was more light, but couldn't find any tracks left by the muskrat. That doesn't mean we didn't see one. Ted Kooser tells us about a similar experience in one of his Winter Morning Walks: one hundred postcards to Jim Harrison.

january 26

Overcast, cold and still.

A hundred yards ahead,
a coyote crosses the road at a lope,
stops on a rise, looks back,
runs on. It is less like
the shape of an animal running
than the shadow of something flying.
When I get to the place where I saw it,
no tracks in the snow.

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What a surprise!

On our early morning return from walking SiSi, we met a strange stranger on the road. SiSi wanted to go play but the stranger didn't seem interested. In fact, the stranger came out of the end of our drive, crossed the road and headed off in the far-side ditch as quickly as possible. It was, we're quite sure, a muskrat. Why a muskrat was prowling our property can be but speculated on. Hungry? Most likely.

habitat for muskrat homes?

Photo by J. Harrington

We had assumed, incorrectly it turns out, that muskrats stayed inside their houses and ate stored food all Winter, like their cousins the beavers. Not so according to the Minnesota DNR. "Unlike the beaver, the muskrat does not store food for the winter. It needs to eat fresh plants each day, and sometimes it makes channels in the mud to get from its house to reach food under the ice." There's a pond a little North of our property from whence the muskrat might have emerged if the stored food has run out. We'll never know for sure. It's all part of the great mystery we live every day.

horses in hoarfrost

Photo by J. Harrington

We're experiencing another sign of approaching Spring today, slight fog and hoarfrost covering the local flora. It certainly pretties up the neighborhood. In fact, one of our favorite pictures we've taken is of hoarfrost covering a neighbor's pasture and woods (see above).

For You, a Handful of the Greatest Gift

Ray Young Bear

Small-eyed, plump, and with black
leathery hands, Attaskwa, is composed
          and debonair
as it perches on trampled cat tail reeds
beside a quivering, cloud-reflecting pond.
          “Filled
with cosmogony, he’s exceedingly
unselfish,” instructs the branch-shaping
          sculptor.
“Wabami, Look at him, kekenetama,
he knows. And he’s elated to oversee
          what
the daylight brings everyday.”
We focus the camera’s telephoto lens
          and see
details of his coat glittering with drops
of luminescent water.

“To our Grandfather, Kemettoemenana,”
narrates the sculpture, “he magnanimously
          agreed after
the Last Conflict of the Gods to retrieve
a handful of soil from the deep, singular
          ocean that
became land beneath our feet. He
set forth unequivocally a doctrine.
          Listen
very closely, my grandchildren,
nottisemetike, for you may not hear
          these words
again.” Lifting its black nose
to the sky, Attaskwaambles
          to the pond’s
edge and stops as if to pose
before the picture is snapped.
          Behind us,
the sculptor crafts a small
dome-shaped skeletal lodge
          and
embeds it to the ground.

We wholly agree that each day
there are overt and minute changes.
          Even if we
don’t see or if we’re not there, it happens.
Without Muskrat, our Creation—you
          and me,
would be zero. From the alluvial soil
delivered from oceanic depths, we
          were made
thereafter. His courage is brazen like
that of a Wetase, Veteran, because he
          dove
unflinchingly to retrieve Earth.

Oblivious of our presence, Attaskwa
slides into the pond and swims
          to the middle,
creating a cape-like effect of waves
behind him that dissipates
          the blue sky
and its clouds. Indicative of his
sacrifice, we learn Attaskwafloated
          lifeless
to the surface. In gratitude Earth-maker
resurrected him. So when personal
          contributions
are contemplated, ask yourself,
my daughter and son, what did I
          sacrifice?
Think specifically of what he did.
Use him, my children, netabenoemetike,
          as an example
of what must be done to rectify
society’s misdirection. Only then
          will our,
language, religion, culture, and history
thrive in the Muskrat’s benevolent
          shadow.

As he approaches the mound
of his home, Attaskwalooks back
          at us briefly.
And before his cape of waves reaches
the shoreline, he dives into the dark
          green pond.
Before we pack up the equipment,
the sculptor hands us sacred
          tobacco
to sprinkle delicately over
the water animal’s architectural
          tranquility.

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Previews of coming attractions

Have you yet started to think about how sweet the sounds of melting snow will be. There'll be the high-pitched plinks of water drops dripping. The softly susurrating splashes of rivulets coursing beside and under disappearing snow banks. Gutters and drainpipes will be hissing with flows and fountains as snowflakes free themselves from rooftop entrapments.

How soon will Winter flow away?

Photo by J. Harrington

Much of this water will flow over still frozen ground to local creeks, brooks and streams. Later, as the frost leaves the ground, the late melting flows will help replenish groundwater, flowing down before it travels across. Sometime next month, unless we have very bad karma, shallow local ponds and marshes should start to become ice-free. All of this will be coming about approximately when the sap starts flowing in our local maple sugarbush. Days nicely above freezing complement nights that dip below 32℉ to provide an abundance of sap that, when boiled, becomes syrup. Minnesota state parks offer a number of syruping sessions with hands on information and demonstration sessions from early March to mid-April.

Shall we start a "pool" on ice out dates?

Photo by J. Harrington

Meanwhile, back at the feeders, a cardinal pair have been seen much more frequently and yesterday we finally saw both pileated woodpeckers at the same time. It looks as though we'll have a breeding pair nesting somewhere nearby this Spring. All in all, we're looking forward to the opportunities to "go with the flow."

The Thaw

Henry David Thoreau, 1817- 1862

I saw the civil sun drying earth’s tears —
Her tears of joy that only faster flowed,
Fain would I stretch me by the highway side,
To thaw and trickle with the melting snow,
That mingled soul and body with the tide,
I too may through the pores of nature flow.
But I alas nor tinkle can nor fume,
One jot to forward the great work of Time,
‘Tis mine to hearken while these ply the loom,
So shall my silence with their music chime.

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A record-setting day!

Today's snowfall may set Minnesota's record for snowiest February in the record books. Lots of folks seem excited about that but, perhaps, not as many as are grumbling about today's commute or more time with the kids home from school. We had a different thought this morning, one that, looked at properly, can be as exciting as setting a monthly snowfall record that may or may not ever be broken. Every single day of our life, for each and every one of us, sets records. Have you ever lived today before? No? Then anything you do today will set some sort of record as a personal best or first.

every snowflake everywhere is unique, just like each day

Photo by J. Harrington

We're going to have a short posting today because we need to go clear snow from the driveway. Every snow flake that gets cleared will set a new personal best snow clearing record. Not our favorite record, bit still... Never before have we written and posted today's blog. Another record set. But life isn't necessarily about setting records as much as it is about participation and connection. The birds and squirrels, as far as we know, are concerned with food, shelter, avoiding predation, and, as the snow stops, procreation. Mary Oliver, among others, has helped us realize this in an awesomely effective oeuvre. So, before we go walk the dogs in the snowstorm, and fire up the snowblower, we'll share (again) with you one of our favorites of her poems. It also helps us remember that soon the snow will be going from and the geese returning to our North Country.

wild geese return with the Spring season

Photo by J. Harrington

Wild Geese

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes,

over the prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,

are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting 

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.

from Dream Work by Mary Oliver

published by Atlantic Monthly Press

© Mary Oliver

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Late Winter, time to go with the flow...

We did get out yesterday and found open, running water, right where we had left it, in one of the small tributaries of the St. Croix River. Although the St. Croix itself is ice and snow covered, it was a joy to see the sparkle and hear the burble of the feeder stream. We're not sure if the creek we visited actually hosts a sucker run or not. We'll check back in a couple of months or so and see if we can learn anything. According to the St. Croix 360 blog/web site, the St. Croix is home to 14 species of suckers, buffalo or redhorse (and many other fish species also).

looking upstream

Photo by J. Harrington

After satisfying our need to see and hear moving water, we headed for Coffee Talk in Taylors Falls, where we treated the Better Half to a cappuccino, enjoyed sitting in the sunshine of the bay windows, and then were off to Wild River State Park where we bought this year's Minnesota State Parks vehicle sticker for the Jeep. Other than the open water and the sunshine, we didn't come across any noticeable signs of impending Spring, although we did notice a couple of wild turkeys trudging through a snow-covered field and, several miles further on, a rooster pheasant pecking gravel at roadside. With more snow in the local forecast tomorrow and this coming weekend, it's shaping up as a tough Spring for local wildlife. There's growing numbers of deer trails/tracks in the snow behind the house. It looks like they're visiting the brush pile seeking possible browse. Life can be tough when you're in the midst of a February that may set a local record for all-time snowiest.

looking downstream

Photo by J. Harrington

The River

By Jim Harrison

Yes, we'll gather by the river,

the beautiful, the beautiful river.

They say it runs by the throne of God.

This is where God invented fish.

Wherever, but then God's throne is as wide

as the universe. If you're attentive you'll

see the throne's borders in the stars. We're on this side

and when you get to the other side we don't know

what will happen if anything. If nothing happens

we won't know it, I said once. Is that cynical?

No, nothing is nothing, not upsetting just

nothing. Then again maybe we'll be cast

at the speed of light through the universe

to God's throne. His hair is bounteous.

All the 5,000 birds on earth were created there.

The firstborn cranes, herons, hawks, at the back

so as not to frighten the little ones.

Even now they remember this divine habitat.

Shall we gather at the river, this beautiful river?

We'll sing with the warblers perched on his eyelashes.

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Young Minnesotan helps organize US Youth Climate Strike

Today's post is about learning how to be, or at least behave, "better than this." For several days we've been fussing and fuming about what looked like a lack of participation by young people in the US in the growing international movement of school strikes for climate. We should have had more faith in our youth. After a limited beginning, the US school strike for climate is scheduled to expand on March 15 of this year. According to a story in the Washington Post, a New York teen "has joined forces with Haven Coleman, a 12-year-old striker from Colorado, and Isra Hirsi, the 15-year-old daughter of Rep. Ilhan Omar (D-Minn.), to organize the U.S. movement." We commend them all and thank them for their efforts to bring the rest of us to our senses. We are particularly delighted to see Minnesota well represented and showing some leadership on this issue.

THIS IS PLANET B
Image Credit: NASA/NOAA/GSFC/Suomi NPP/VIIRS/Norman Kuring

We're not sure what, if anything, it means, but our recollection of the early Vietnam War protests (yes, we are that old) was that many, perhaps most(?), of the participants were college age. Then again, many of the civil rights activists of the 1950s and '60s, such as the Little Rock Nine, were high school students.

Despite being a card-carrying member of the "Grumpy Old Men," we firmly disavow the concept that wisdom is ensconced only in society's elders. We live on a dynamic and changing planet in a dynamic and changing universe. We, and the rest of the current inhabitants of Earth, are facing challenges with catastrophic implications for the continuation of many species, including homo sapiens, if we do not transform our cultures and economies from a linear, once through, consumer focused model to a circular, regenerative, restorative model. Those embedded in a "we've never done it this way before" mindset may serve as dutiful followers but should not be allowed to serve as leaders. By coincidence, if you believe in coincidence, this morning we came across a set of recently developed resources on designing for the circular economy. They were created by IDEO and the Ellen MacArthur Foundation. We'd like to see more folks aware of these tools and how to use them, especially the "younger generation." Let's face it, they have much more to gain, or to lose, by getting the needed changes done effectively (doing the right things) and efficiently (doing things right) than do those of us who've been around for awhile.

All of the preceding now has us wondering what a democracy would look like, and how it would function, if that democracy's goals were set by the younger generation (reverting back to our college days, let's call it those who can be trusted, i.e., under thirty.) and responsibility for figuring out how to attain those goals became the responsibility of the older generations. After all, Adam and Eve were, presumably, adults and look where that's got us. On the other hand, many of our "founding fathers" were mere striplings. "Many of the Founding Fathers were under 40 years old at the time of the signing of the Declaration of Independence in 1776: Alexander Hamilton was 19, Aaron Burr was 20, Gouverneur Morris was 24." Think about that and consider how we can better honor the wisdom and integrity youth expresses through their honesty and impatience.

[Murmurs from the earth of this land]

By Muriel Rukeyser

Murmurs from the earth of this land, from the caves and craters,

       from the bowl of darkness. Down watercourses of our

       dragon childhood, where we ran barefoot.

We stand as growing women and men. Murmurs come down

        where water has not run for sixty years.

Murmurs from the tulip tree and the catalpa, from the ax of

        the stars, from the house on fire, ringing of glass; from

        the abandoned iron-black mill.

Stars with voices crying like mountain lions over forgotten

        colors.

Blue directions and a horizon, milky around the cities where the

        murmurs are deep enough to penetrate deep rock.

Trapping the lightning-bird, trapping the red central roots.

You know the murmurs. They come from your own throat.

You are the bridges to the city and the blazing food-plant green;

The sun of plants speaks in your voice, and the infinite shells of

        accretions

A beach of dream before the smoking mirror.

You are close to that surf, and the leaves heated by noon, and

        the star-ax, the miner’s glitter walls. The crests of the sea

Are the same strength you wake with, the darkness is the eyes

        of children forming for a blaze of sight and soon, soon,

Everywhere your own silence, who drink from the crater, the

        nebula, one another, the changes of the soul.

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On the eve of President's Day

The day night after tomorrow's brings February's full moon. According to some reports it will be the biggest, brightest moon (supermoon) for several years to come. Some Anishnaabe refer to it as sucker moon (namebini-giizis). Others refer to February's full moon as bear moon (MKWA GIIZIS) and call April's full moon the sucker moon. Regardless of the name, we're looking forward to seeing it and maybe getting a picture or two if the sky is clear enough.

a February full moon

Photo by J. Harrington

Suckers, the fish, run in April, not February. Black bears give birth to cubs in February. There's a partial explanation of the differencese in naming moons among the Ojibwe to be found on the ojibwe.net months and moons page. Thinking about suckers running makes us think about open water running. We haven't been to any of the feeder streams flowing to the St. Croix River for months and months. Tomorrow is a holiday. A trip to look at and listen to open, running, water, followed by a cup of coffee at a local coffee shop, seems like a great way to honor the first 44 presidents of the country. Number 45 seems hell-bent to destroy whatever good is left in this nation, so we'll leave him off a list of those we honor tomorrow. As of today, it is 624 days until the next presidential election.

open water, running water, sucker water?

Photo by J. Harrington

A New National Anthem

Ada Limón, 1976

The truth is, I’ve never cared for the National
Anthem. If you think about it, it’s not a good
song. Too high for most of us with “the rockets’
red glare” and then there are the bombs.
(Always, always there is war and bombs.)
Once, I sang it at homecoming and threw
even the tenacious high school band off key.
But the song didn’t mean anything, just a call
to the field, something to get through before
the pummeling of youth. And what of the stanzas
we never sing, the third that mentions “no refuge
could save the hireling and the slave”? Perhaps
the truth is that every song of this country
has an unsung third stanza, something brutal
snaking underneath us as we blindly sing
the high notes with a beer sloshing in the stands
hoping our team wins. Don’t get me wrong, I do
like the flag, how it undulates in the wind
like water, elemental, and best when it’s humbled,
brought to its knees, clung to by someone who
has lost everything, when it’s not a weapon,
when it flickers, when it folds up so perfectly
you can keep it until it’s needed, until you can
love it again, until the song in your mouth feels
like sustenance, a song where the notes are sung
by even the ageless woods, the shortgrass plains,
the Red River Gorge, the fistful of land left
unpoisoned, that song that’s our birthright,
that’s sung in silence when it’s too hard to go on,
that sounds like someone’s rough fingers weaving
into another’s, that sounds like a match being lit
in an endless cave, the song that says my bones
are your bones, and your bones are my bones,
and isn’t that enough?

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Celebrating release by Our Native Daughters

We have been a fan of Rhiannon Giddens for quite some time now and were mightily impressed when we saw her in person at the O'Shaughnessy a year and a half ago. Now she's recorded a new album with a different group, Our Native Daughters, which also features Amythyst Kiah, Allison Russell and Leyla McCalla. We suspect that it's not a coincidence that the album is scheduled for release in about a week, on February 22, near the midst of Black History Month. But, perhaps that's just a coincidence, if you believe in coincidence. [The first link in this paragraph will take you to npr's write up on the album, including the ability to listen to the full album or any of the individual tracks. We're listening as we write this.]

the calm before the concert

Photo by J. Harrington

There's been a growing number of folks trying to make the case that "we're better than this" as more and more xenophobic, racist, hateful crap pours out of the White House these days. All we can say to that is those folks need to go back and do a better job studying American History 101. The "we" some of us claim we're better than are also citizens and/or residents of a country founded by adventuring religious dissidents who built a nation on the backs of those suffering from land appropriation, slavery and/or genocide, at a minimum. It looks unfortunately clear to us that the struggle for civil rights and equality is far from over. In fact, we behave like we're presently backsliding from the values and principles hashed out in many of our country's founding documents. [No, we're not including the 3/5 of a person provision. Maybe, though, we should apply that concept to corporate persons.]

Please don't misinterpret what we're claiming here. We CAN BE BETTER than the way too many of us are behaving these days but, to accomplish that, we have to change our ways and work at being better. It don't just come naturally. We've developed excessive hubris and and an overweening sense of entitlement. There is insufficient truth to the claim that "It can't happen here." Read about the Trail of Tears. Study the Dred Scott decision. Think about Citizens United and how we've fared since that SCOTUS decision. We continue to wonder why, if corporations really are to be considered "persons," they aren't subject to any form of the death penalty.

We could go on, and undoubtedly will some day soon. For today, we're gleeful that we live in a society that has a culture varied enough to include Our Native Daughters, Buffy Sainte-Marie, Robert Zimmerman, and Richie Valens. Perhaps we can be better than we've been if we let our native music's charms help soothe our savage breast, soften our hardened hearts, and bend our notted minds. Those who study them note that "Ecosystems with a lot of biodiversity are generally stronger and more resistant to disaster than those with fewer species." To that we would add that they're also more fun.

I, Too

By Langston Hughes

I, too, sing America.

I am the darker brother.

They send me to eat in the kitchen

When company comes,

But I laugh,

And eat well,

And grow strong.

Tomorrow,

I’ll be at the table

When company comes.

Nobody’ll dare

Say to me,

“Eat in the kitchen,”

Then.

Besides,

They’ll see how beautiful I am

And be ashamed—

I, too, am America.

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Counting the days

Today is February 15. When we awoke this morning, the temperature was -5℉. Local windchills are in the -20℉ range and colder to the West of us. After today (that is, not counting February 15), in seven days (February 23) the normal daytime high should reach 32℉. After today there are 13 days until March 1, the first day of meteorological Spring. After today there are22 days until Daylight Savings time starts on March 10. After today, there are 32 days until the Vernal Equinox on March 20, the start of astronomical Spring. Unfortunately, Shakespeare's Hamlet had it all too correct when he spoke the lines:

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,

Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,

He might well have been describing the pace at which Winter departs and Spring arrives in our North Country.  The weather app on our "smartphone" extends out nine days past today. It includes no temperatures forecast to warm to 32℉. Snow is included in the forecast for five of those nine days. It's not exactly that we don't like Winter (although we don't). Even if we liked snow and cold and freezing rain and ice, there's such a thing as too much of a good thing, and about this time each year, that's what we've had when it comes to Winter, too much of it.

amaryllis from Christmas 2017 to Valentine's 2019

Photo by J. Harrington

Unless something radically untoward and unforeseen happens, today's posting will be our last Winter's rant for this season. We will, henceforth, celebrate signs of Spring's arrival or preparations thereof. The sun is now warm enough to trigger melting around the edges of the few streaks of blacktop showing on our road. The Christmas amaryllis from 2017 have become Valentine's amaryllis this year. It's great to see flowers blooming. Slowly, snow will be blown from or melt off of tree branches, revealing leaf buds awaiting warmer days. Perhaps, one day soon, even the whitetail deer will start feeding on Spring's new growth and leave our sunflower seed feeder alone?

four-hoofed bird seed snitchers

Photo by J. Harrington

As an aside, we haven't lost track of our ongoing research for Native American place-names in the St. Croix Valley. In fact, yesterday we read something we believe and want to share. It's from the book Ojibwe: Waasa Inaabidaa: We Look In All Directions. It's a quotation from the late Walt Bressette:

So I think our rights, indigenous rights, treaty rights, will become a vital tool in the role in the restabilization of this economy. In addition I think the indigenous knowledge that we have with our elders will become a tool that will be used. (p. 62)

The recognition and honoring of "indigenous rights, treaty rights" has become more critical during the past several years as the rights of more and more of us have been threatened. It's been said the we are "a government of laws, not of men." We don't see any way that can be true if the same laws don't apply equally to all peoples and if a dominant culture claiming to be a democracy refuses to respect and reflect the bedrock beliefs and values on which it is supposedly formed.

Democracy

By Dorianne Laux

When you’re cold—November, the streets icy and everyone you pass

homeless, Goodwill coats and Hefty bags torn up to make ponchos—

someone is always at the pay phone, hunched over the receiver

spewing winter’s germs, swollen lipped, face chapped, making the last

tired connection of the day. You keep walking to keep the cold

at bay, too cold to wait for the bus, too depressing the thought

of entering that blue light, the chilled eyes watching you decide

which seat to take: the man with one leg, his crutches bumping

the smudged window glass, the woman with her purse clutched

to her breasts like a dead child, the boy, pimpled, morose, his head

shorn, a swastika carved into the stubble, staring you down.

So you walk into the cold you know: the wind, indifferent blade,

familiar, the gold leaves heaped along the gutters. You have

a home, a house with gas heat, a toilet that flushes. You have

a credit card, cash. You could take a taxi if one would show up.

You can feel it now: why people become Republicans: Get that dog

off the street. Remove that spit and graffiti. Arrest those people huddled

on the steps of the church.If it weren’t for them you could believe in god,

in freedom, the bus would appear and open its doors, the driver dressed

in his tan uniform, pants legs creased, dapper hat: Hello Miss, watch

your step now.But you’re not a Republican. You’re only tired, hungry,

you want out of the cold. So you give up, walk back, step into line behind

the grubby vet who hides a bag of wine under his pea coat, holds out

his grimy 85 cents, takes each step slow as he pleases, releases his coins

into the box and waits as they chink down the chute, stakes out a seat

in the back and eases his body into the stained vinyl to dream

as the chips of shrapnel in his knee warm up and his good leg

flops into the aisle. And you’ll doze off, too, in a while, next to the girl

who can’t sit still, who listens to her Walkman and taps her boots

to a rhythm you can’t hear, but you can see it—when she bops

her head and her hands do a jive in the air—you can feel it

as the bus rolls on, stopping at each red light in a long wheeze,

jerking and idling, rumbling up and lurching off again.

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